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“What audience?” Keeping them talking is my only goal, but as for how to talk my way out of this alive? I’ve got nothing.

“Your parents.” Pants guy fiddles with his handgun and checks the chamber. “They’re gonna get first viewing.”

“Don’t suppose I get to say my last words?”

“Sure.” The cameraman adopts a relaxed stance and wiggles his brows. “Action!”

A low rumbling fills the air, like the distant hum of an airplane engine. It’s getting louder by the second, and all three of us glance skyward in confusion.

Wait, that’s not an airplane?—

A motorcycle suddenly blasts around the bend in the road and roars straight toward us. There’s barely time for anyone to react because as soon as we see the bike, it’s already screeching under the strain of brakes and slowing down. A dark figure, shrouded behind the blinding glare of the headlights, leaps from the slowing motorcycle and crash-lands onto pants guy just as his bike smashes full force into the cameraman and wipes him right out of existence.

Am I hallucinating? Has death finally come for me on a motorcycle?

“You motherfucker!” roars the mysterious man from where he grapples fiercely with pants guy on the road.

Wait, I know that voice.

“R-Roman?” It can’t be. How the hell is he here? Why is he even here?

The two men clash together like waves, rolling over and exchanging blow after blow. Roman is an impressive fighter, but it seems pants guy has skills of his own. After being tackled by all two hundred and sixty pounds of Roman Gatti muscle, pants guylost his gun. I spot it glinting in a nearby puddle, reflecting the lights of the now toppled-over motorcycle.

I can help.

I have to help.

Climbing to my feet brings me right back down face-first on the pavement as an overwhelming wave of dizziness turns the road to Jell-O beneath my feet. Nausea swims up my gut and my heartbeat throbs right behind my eyes.

Holy shit.

I definitely hit my head.

Shit.

Get up, Jasmine. Get the fuck up!

Trying again brings me to my hands and knees, but it’s an improvement. Roman and the stranger are still fighting one another like wild animals, so I drag my trembling body toward the gun until Roman’s cry of pain makes me freeze.

He stumbles backward, gasping at the knife protruding from his shoulder.

“Roman!”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he rips the blade out of his shoulder, flips it around, and throws it directly at the chest of my attacker. It collides with a wet thump, and Roman follows the movement with a swift punch to the hilt that sends the stranger crashing to the ground with a wounded yelp. Then they’re on one another, kicking and punching and wrestling to the death.

I shake my head and crawl, getting stronger with each shuffle. By the time I reach the gun, my vision is clear, and the thumping, pulsing beat of my heart has returned to my chest. I scramble to my feet, raise the weapon, and—freeze.

Roman stands before me panting heavily with the dirty-pants stranger dead a few feet behind him. The hilt of the knife protrudes proudly from his neck.

“Holy shit,” I gasp, staring at Roman in utter shock. How—how are you here?”

A rumble roars overhead and a split second later, the heavens open. Rain pours down in sheets, drenching us in seconds. Roman’s dark hair flatters like an oil slick to his head, blood leaks from his brow and lip while his black shirt—which quickly becomes a second skin under the intense downpour—hides his wounded shoulder.

“Jasmine—” He surges forward and clutches my waist, then my cheek which sends a light mist of rainwater into my eyes. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“I think I’m okay. The crash was…I don’t even remember. I think I hit my head and then the—wait, Roman what’s going on?”

“Alto,” he mutters bitterly. “He’s behind this. Told me to my fucking face. I tried to call you, and when you didn’t pick up, I started tracing your cell. Are you sure you’re okay?” His dark brows pinch together with worry as he keeps lightly patting my cheek.